Karaoke Night

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Shitfaced was a term Dorian hadn't truly understood until now. John Kennex was shitfaced. He was so drunk he was swaying as he climbed onto the stage.

Karaoke night at McQuaids. When John had seen the sign on the door as they arrived a few hours earlier, he almost made them leave. Now, a few pitchers deep, John was ready to join the party. Luckily, it was nearing closing time and the only ones left in the bar were practically asleep on the counter.

"Lookit this fucking thing," John said, holding up the microphone, "Dee, look. look." He slurred through Dorian's nickname and held the microphone out to him, giving it a tiny shake. "Iz this thing on?" he tapped on it, sending loud, bushy thump noises through the room, "Iz this thing turning you on, Dorian?" he laughed too wildly at his own joke.

"It looks like a robo-penits. Peantis...pea." John swallowed hard, "Penis," he shouted.

If Dorian had the capacity to blush, he'd be pink as a carebear right now. John gave him a saucy look, or it was at least an attempt at one. He just looked, well, shitfaced did seem to be the best way to describe it.

He ran his hands along the microphone seductively, pumping it. "Jealish?" he slurred, propping one eyebrow up.

Dorian looked at him steadily. At this point, he was filming. This was going to be perfect blackmail for later. Next time he wanted to go on a walk or run the O-course, John wouldn't be able to refuse.

John opened his mouth wide and began to jam the hand-held mic between his lips. The metal on his teeth and his throaty breathing filling the room through the speakers. He pushed until he got the whole bulbous, metal head inside.

Thank god for police-mandated vaccinations. Every person at the mic today had been practically licking it, spitting their songs into it. Putting mics in your mouth was unsanitary.

Not getting the rise he wanted, John ripped the thing out of his mouth, beer flavored drool connecting his lips and the receiver. The bar owner looked nauseous and said, "What song, buddy?"

John thought on it, his hip cocked to one side. "Paranoid Android, Radiohead," he finally said, blowing a joking kiss at Dorian.

The man shook his head and put the song on. John falsetto'd his way through the song, getting his hips down in the musical interludes. No one had a damn clue what he was saying but they were all pretty happy when Dorian carried him out of the bar like a sack of potatoes. The sticky microphone squealing with feedback as it hit the stage.


Inspired by yet another image of Karl Urban choking on a dirty, dirty microphone.